


Dark Wings, Dark Words

by GilShalos1



Series: A Lion In Winter [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:18:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: Brienne, after Jaime leaves for King's LandingSpoilers up to 8.04 inclusive, and then AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was one sketch for an ending to Promises and Porridge that I toyed with before deciding to send Brienne to King’s Landing. I decided to write it up as a one-shot, and it … grew? It starts very angsty, but trust me, please?
> 
> There is a small bit of Brienne/Tormund, which I didn't tag for because I didn't want to mislead and disappoint those who sail that ship.

Brienne had not given in to the impulse to ride south, to the war, to _him_ , even when it had ached inside her like a mortal wound. There was work to do. There was her Lady to serve. There were oaths to keep.

Even that might not have kept her from it, if she hadn’t known it wouldn’t do any good.

_You don’t stand crying in front of a man begging him not to leave you for another woman and then watch him ride away without a backwards glance without knowing asking him a second time won’t do any good._

All her life, she’d been learning about being a knight, working at it, making herself better and better, learning about swordsmanship and troop movements and strategy and supply-lines, lessons from books and stories and those with more experience than she. And then in one shining moment Jaime Lannister had made her one.

All her life, she’d been a woman and she’d been learning next to nothing about the things other women learned from girlhood. How it felt to love and be loved back, how it felt to be looked at as if you were beautiful, how it felt to lie in someone’s arms and laugh and not be afraid. For a few perfect weeks, Jaime Lannister had taught her all those things.

And then, in a few sentences, reminded her of the lessons she’d long ago learned about being the Beauty of Tarth: how it felt to be too ugly to choose, how it felt when it all turned out to have been just an amusement, how it felt to be rejected as _not enough_.

So. Work. Service. Faithfulness. The things she’d taught herself, the place she’d earned herself, the life she’d chosen for herself.

Some nights, Brienne was even tired enough to sleep.

She saw Jaime everywhere – in the courtyard, the Great Hall, rounding a corner just ahead of her – but it was never him, it was a tall Northerner with greying hair, it was a flicker of torchlight, it was a mailed gauntlet that looked, for one instant, like a golden hand.

She saw him everywhere, but he was gone.

When the raven came, as she knew it would – _they’re going to destroy that city, you can’t save her_ – Brienne was dry-eyed as she watched Lady Sansa break the seal and read the news. The Lady of Winterfell was hard to read, but Brienne had practice at it, and she saw the satisfaction that Sansa briefly allowed herself to show.

“Cersei is dead?”

Sansa nodded.

“And …” But Brienne was Lady Sansa’s sworn sword, so she forced herself to ask the questions duty demanded first. “Your brother? Daenerys Targaryen? Our men?”

“Jon and Daenerys live. We lost three men killed, four maimed. The rest are wounded. It will be a while before we see them in Winterfell again.”

“And … and the others?”

Life had given Sansa Stark a steely strength, for which Brienne admired her, but it had not robbed her of the kindness for which Brienne loved her, and her blue eyes were compassionate. “No specific word. I will enquire.”

“No need on my account, my Lady,” Brienne assured her. “Do you have the names of the men of Winterfell killed? I will find where their families are, so you can break the news to them.”

That was an awful task, one which left even Lady Sansa at the brink of tears. It served as a reminder, too, that Brienne was not the only one for whom the victory brought sorrow. _And the two fresh widows and the newly bereaved mother of Winterfell mourn men who laid down their lives to end tyranny, not to try to save it._ She had no right to grieve.

More news followed on more black wings, and the picture became clearer. Cersei’s last gambit had been to threaten wildfire, wagering on the reluctance of her enemies to risk innocent lives. Queen Daenerys had not been deterred, but by the grace of the Seven, when the assault took place the threatened explosions didn’t occur.

Only one, in the Red Keep itself, charring the Great Hall and turning the bodies of those within it to unrecognisable charcoal.

Brienne wished she didn’t know that, wished she knew that Jaime Lannister had died quickly and painlessly and lay somewhere in the earth as if he were sleeping, and not that he had died in agony, burning alive.  That he lay as a blackened, shrunken corpse, unrecognisable even to those who –

Who loved him.  

There was a message addressed to Brienne directly, in Tyrion Lannister’s practiced hand. _Ser Brienne, this note may not be welcome, but I urge you, either read it or keep it for another time, rather than putting it in the fire._

_I met with my brother the night before the last battle. A parley, to deliver Cersei’s threat. He asked after you –_

Brienne held the message over the flames in the hearth for a long moment, and then put it in her pocket and went to Lady Sansa.  

“It occurs to me,” she said, her voice sounding strangely hoarse to her own ears, “that we should have some better information about the Wildlings at Castle Black. Whether they’re still there, for instance. With your permission, I’ll ride up there.”

Sansa nodded, her gaze gentle. “Take –”

“ _Alone_ ,” Brienne said.

But she was a knight, and so when she rode out from the gates of Winterfell towards the Wall, she was not only armed and armoured and riding Jaime Lannister’s gifts, she was accompanied by one as well.

She would have preferred to be on her own, utterly, but at least Podrick had become useful over the years they’d travelled together, and he wasn’t a bad sort. He knew when Brienne didn’t want to talk, as well, and tactfully rode a fair distance behind her. He didn’t raise the topic of Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, Commander of the Kingsguard, Defender of Winterfell …

Blackened corpse cooling on the floor of the Red Keep’s Great Hall.

Podrick didn’t raise the topic of Jaime Lannister and neither did Brienne.

When they reached Castle Black, the Wildlings were still there, and when Tormund Giantsbane looked her up and down and leered, Brianne said, “Oh, come on, then,” and marched towards the nearest door.

He was nothing like Jaime had been, and not just because he was far more hairy. Jaime had been impossibly gentle, as if Brienne was made of glass and silk and everything fine. No matter how urgent his passion had been, it had been tender, cherishing. Tormund was forceful, grappling with her, their coupling as much a wrestling match as anything else. He used his strength and demanded hers, and that was something new.

Tormund was considerate of her pleasure, if panting _have you finished yet?_ could be called considerate, and Brienne felt it was polite to lie and tell him, _yes, yes I have._  

“Oh, thank fuck,” he said, groaned like a dying animal, and collapsed on top of her.

Brienne washed herself and got dressed, listening to him snore lightly.   _Well, now I know_. It wasn’t always the way it had been with Jaime, but it could be … fine. If she wanted.

When she pulled on her breeches, Tyrion’s message crackled in her pocket.

Supposing there was no better place to read about the end of what she’d thought would be her world than at the end of the actual world, Brienne took the iron cage lift to the top of the wall, sat down, and began to read.  


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne learns what comes after the end of the world .

Tyrion had written very small, all along both sides of the scroll and crossing them, so Brienne had to squint even in the bright sunlight to make it out.

_Ser Brienne, this note may not be welcome, but I urge you, either read it or keep it for another time, rather than putting it in the fire._

_I met with my brother the night before the last battle. A parley, to deliver Cersei’s threat. He asked after you, and was glad to know that you were well, and well away from the battle._

_He asked me to send word to you – that he was out of practice at being a good man, but he knew how to be an honourable one, and he always kept his oaths. He said you would know what he meant. He asked me to wish you well, very well, and to ask you to understand that he stood in the place where he belonged, as little as he wished it, the place he had to be._

_Ser Brienne, for a short while, I cherished the hope that I might call you sister. My brother, for all his faults, was not a bad man, only a weak one, and only that in some regards. From what he has said, I believe you know that the worst deed recorded against his name was truly the best. For a long time, only I knew the truth of it – so to know he told it to you tells me volumes._

_I have watched him watch you, and I have heard his voice when he speaks of you, and as the one who ~~knows~~ knew him better than anyone, I am certain that he loved you. When we were at Winterfell, he was happy – even before the battle against the dead, when we were all likely to die. He had been unhappy for a very long time, and I am grateful that he had that, for a time. In his memory, if there is anything I can do for you – for you, not for Lady Sansa, because as Hand of the Queen I must be obedient to her wishes as regards your Lady – I urge you to write to me, and if it is in my power, I will surely do it. _

_And forgive me for being indelicate, but if you are with child, the child will be heir of both Lannister and Tarth, which is a complication, and one which it will be my honour to help you negotiate._

_Tyrion Lannister._

Brienne sat for a long time, looking at the north, the true north beyond the Wall. She read the letter again, and then a third time. _An honourable man … in the place he had to be._

_He said you will know what he meant._

The wildfire had not ignited, despite Cersei’s plans. The city, and the people, had been saved.

As they had been, once before.

_In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave._

_In the name of the Mother ..._

Brienne wept for a long time, sitting there at the edge of the world, as tears and snot froze on her face. Wept, and rocked back and forth, and screamed at the uncaring sky.

And then went back down to the bottom of the Wall and the world of men.

She sent off one of their two ravens, bearing a message Lady Sansa that the Wildlings were still waiting for the weather to clear. Podrick replenished their supplies, Brienne politely declined Tormund’s offer of a repeat engagement, and they set off home to Winterfell.

She woke sweating, the first night, from a dream of Jaime’s skin blackening, his flesh charring, until he was nothing more than a shrivelled corpse who opened pale blue eyes and reached for her.

Podrick sat up, blinking, and Brienne realised she must have cried out in her sleep. “Ser Brienne?”

“I’m fine,” she snarled, rolled out of her bedroll and vomited on the snow.

And the second night, and the third.

_I shouldn’t have read Tyrion’s letter._

If she’d been able to keep believing Jaime had never truly changed from the man who’d killed his own kin just to get back to Cersei … if she’d been able to believe that what they’d shared had been an illusion, that she had been fooled, tricked, that the man she had loved had never been more than the reflection of herself that she saw in his eyes …

If she hadn’t known the truth, she could have kept on hating herself for loving him.

It was a long, cold journey back to Winterfell. Brienne felt the chill sinking into her bones in a way it never had before, sapping her strength as even the bitter eldritch winter that the Night King carried with him had not, perhaps because fatigue dragged her down as well.  Every night she saw Jaime’s eyes open icy blue, and sometimes, when she dozed in the saddle, she saw them during the day as well.

Podrick, Seven Blessings to him, said nothing about it, but from time to time Brienne caught him watching her with worry in his dark eyes.   

“It’s not an illness,” Brienne said to him at last, because she’d be a poor sort of knight if she let her squire go on distressing himself over her as he had been. “Not a fever, or an ague. It happens, sometimes, after a fight or a battle. I’ve heard men talk about it. It passes, with time.”

When the day began to fade on their last day of the journey, they were still several hours short of Winterfell. “We’d better find a place to camp,” Brienne said.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” Podrick said. “Looks to be staying clear, too.”

A full moon would light the way almost as well as the sun would. “You’re able to ride on?”

He nodded. “And I’d surely rather a warm bed beneath a roof tonight.”

So they rode on, and reached Winterfell half-way-through the night. The castle was quiet in sleep, only the night’s watch stirring. Brienne gave Podrick charge of the horses, with firm instructions to wake a stablehand to help him and get to his own bed as quickly as he could.

She wanted her fire and she wanted her bed. With luck, the dreams had been bred by sleeping cold, and would leave her alone tonight.

But there was one more task duty set her before she could seek either fire or bed. Brienne turned aside from the corridor that led to her own room and into the one that led to the Lady Sansa’s apartment.

Elen Snow and Robb Smithson had drawn guard-duty there tonight. Brienne approved of both of them, tough youngsters who worked hard in the training yard and showed promise. They might have rough edges, and a lot to learn, but Brienne was quite certain they’d die for their Lady.

Both drew themselves up as she approached. “Ser!”

“Be easy.” Brienne kept her voice low. “Lady Sansa is within?” Both nodded. “I won’t disturb her, but when she wakes, tell her –”

“She’s not asleep,” Elen said. “She sent for Maester Wolkan a little while ago and he’s with her now.”

Brienne frowned. “She’s ill?” She rapped on the door with one mailed gauntlet. “My Lady?”

“No, she’s –” Robb started.

“Come in,” Sansa called.

Brienne opened the door and strode inside. Her gaze found her Lady first, and Sansa didn’t _look_ ill, seated by the fire with her habitual ram-rod stiff spine. Beside her, the maester was writing on a slip of paper, a raven scroll by the size.

And rising to his feet beside Lady Sansa, so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor, a tall man with greying hair and greying beard and only one hand.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, his voice catching.

 

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne learns the truth.

Cold sweat prickled Brienne’s skin, as if she was about to be sick, but there was no nausea, only the room beginning to slide sideways around her, the floor tilting. She tried to speak, but her lips and tongue were numb and if they hadn’t been, her mind had gone queerly blank.

“Catch her!” Lady Sansa cried out from somewhere far away and Brienne looked to see who she meant and then realised that she herself was falling, no strength in her legs. Hands caught her, Elen staggering under her weight, and Brienne thought vaguely that the girl needed more time with weighted swords and then –

“I have her, I have her,” Jaime said, and he was there beside her and his arms were around her. They were strong and real, and the breath that brushed her cheek was warm, and the eyes that looked into hers were his own. “Help me lay her down.”

“No.” Brienne managed to get her feet under her. “No, I’m alright.” She straightened.

For a moment Jaime’s arms tightened around her, and then he let her go, and dragged the nearest chair towards her. “Sit.”

Brienne ignored him. “My Lady, I am fatigued. With your permission, I’ll retire for the night.”

“Perhaps Maester Wolkan should make sure you’re well,” Sansa said.

“No need, my Lady.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “Then by all means, go and rest. Ser Jaime, will you please make sure Ser Brienne reaches her room safely?”

“I hardly need –”

Jaime bowed to Sansa. “It would be my honour, my Lady.”

Brienne let out a huff of irritation and stalked out. Although her legs still felt a little unreliable, she strode down the corridor at a fair clip.

Jaime trailed behind her. “Brienne.”

Reaching her door, she stopped. “Thank you for your assistance, Ser Jaime,” she said crisply.

He opened the door and preceded her into the room, without asking. “It’s fucking cold in here. I’ll build you a fire.”

Brienne followed him in, shutting the door behind her out of habit, even though there was, as he’d said, no warmth to escape. “I can build my own fire.” She watched him fumbling one-handed for a moment, and then knelt, shouldering him out of the way. “Oh, let me.”

Jaime sat back on his heels. “Then what shall I do? Have you eaten?”

“On the road.”

“Wine?”

She turned to glare at him. “What do you want?”

“To make sure you’re alright.” Jaime smiled. “I am a knight, still, even if my honour is somewhat tarnished. I’m required to rescue fainting maidens.”

“I’m not a fainting maiden,” Brienne snapped.

“Fainting knights, then,” he said lightly.

“I didn’t –” Well, she _had_ , almost.  “I don’t need rescuing.”

The fire began to catch. Brienne fed another piece of wood to the flames and sat back on her heels, yanking at the buckles on her armour. When Jaime reached to help her, she pulled away.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked softly.

 _Of course I want you to bloody leave._ “No,” she said after a moment, jerking her pauldron free.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Brienne turned to glare at him. “I’d like you to make it so the last weeks never happened, that’s what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to make it so I got a raven from your brother saying you were alive and a hero instead of hearing that you were a blackened corpse. Can you do that?”

“No.” Jaime’s voice was very quiet.

“I’d like you to make it so that when you left, you told me the truth, that you didn’t leave me thinking you were going _back_ to her, that you loved her enough to die for her. And cared so little for me that you wouldn’t even _live_ for me. Can you do that?”

He flinched a little, looking away from her. “Brienne. You would have stopped me.”

“If I didn’t stop you going back to fight _for_ that … _woman_ , what makes you think I would have stopped you from going to fight _against_ her?”

“Or tried to help me.”

“Yes, I would have turned my back on my Lady, abandoned my duty, and thrown my life away trying to pass unnoticed beneath Cersei Lannister’s nose, because I’m so bloody unobtrusive. That’s exactly what I would have done.” The last buckle gave and she flung her cuirass off and rose to her feet. “Seven Hells, Jaime. You were cruel enough to hurt me, at least be brave enough to tell me the truth about _why_.” All she could see was the back of his head as he stared at the fire. Brienne curled her fingers, digging her nails into her palms, to keep from giving in to the impulse to reach out and smooth his greying hair. “Look at me!” she demanded. “Look at me and be honest.”

Jaime turned slowly, and raised his chin to meet her gaze. The lines that time and pain had put on his face over recent years were deeper and his expression was blank, as if he’d gone away somewhere inside his head where he couldn’t be touched by anything. “I thought it would hurt you less, to hate me.”

Brienne’s lip curled. “As if I could hate you. How could you be so stupid?”

He didn’t move. Brienne didn’t think he even breathed. Something lightened in his eyes. “You don’t hate me?”

“Why did you let them tell me you were dead?” she burst out. “Do you know – can you think how I _felt_?”

“That, you can’t blame me for. I took a fairly large piece of the Red Keep to the head when the wildfire went up and spent days asleep in an infirmary tent,” Jaime said. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “I’m not exactly the Golden Lion anymore, my Brienne, and my golden hand enriched some battlefield scavenger. I was one more wounded soldier of indeterminate origin until I woke.”

“And what happened?” Brienne asked. “Did Cersei touch off the wildfire?”

 Jaime shook his head. “She was dead by then. No, it was an accident, of all things. Queen Daenerys – her dragon was struck by a bolt. Injured. He came crashing down onto the top of the Red Keep, spouting fire all the way, and the next thing I knew there was a bloody great green flash and half the Keep went up in the air, and then some of it landed on me.”

Brienne frowned. “They said she was alright. They said she was Queen.”

“She is.” He shifted his weight and sat on the floor, catching himself with his stump as he lost his balance. Brienne realised he was as tired as she was. “I heard, from many who claimed to have seen it, that she and her dragon walked unharmed through the green fire. That when she emerged from the flames her clothes had charred and burned and she was naked as a babe, but without a mark on her.” He gave a little huff of a laugh. “It seems the Mad King was right about one thing. Fire cannot hurt a dragon.”

“And …” She hesitated, but she had to know. “And Cersei?”

“I killed her,” Jaime said. “I thought – I thought perhaps she might want to live, to see her last child born.” He closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t look at her and tell the story at the same time. “But she gave the order, to her Hand, Qyburn. I killed him. I told her, I wouldn’t let her do it. She set the Mountain on me, and, well.” He shrugged a little, and then opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Sit down with me. Brienne.” He held out his hand to her, a fine tremor in his fingers. “Please.”

Brienne bit her lip, and then took his hand and let him draw her down to sit beside him. She was careful not to be close enough to touch, and Jaime didn’t try to draw her closer.

He kept hold of her hand, though. “I’m not what I used to be and even when I was, the Mountain would have been a challenge. He disarmed me, seized me. Cersei ordered him to tear my only useful hand from my body. I felt my shoulder joint go, but then Sandor Clegane was there.” The tremor in Jaime’s fingers had grown worse, become a shivering that shook his body as he forced out the words. “How, I don’t know. They fought. I know the Hound won. He survived. I wasn’t watching.” He raised the stump of his right wrist, and ground out, “I was strangling my sister with the golden hand she had made for me so she could pretend I was still a whole man.” He stopped, and the silence stretched. “Say something, Brienne. Kiss me or curse me or strike me, anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Kiss me or curse me” references the line in the books Jaime uses when he’s finished telling Brienne about killing the Mad King.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Knights in the night.

 

 “You _are_ a whole man.” Brienne put her other hand over his, so she held his one hand in both of hers. “You _are_ a whole man, Jaime Lannister.”

“Kingslayer, Kinslayer, the two best deeds of my life.” Jaime laughed, and it was an ugly sound. “What a jape, eh? A knight whose honour is so shit-dipped that the only thing I can be proud of are the worst crimes imaginable, who –”

Brienne took his face between her hands, and kissed him, because she couldn’t curse him and she couldn’t strike him. And because she couldn’t bear to hear that awful edge to his voice, the one that had been there when he’d told her he was as hateful as his sister, not again, not ever again. The muscles of his jaw were rigid beneath her palms and his lips set tight against hers, but Brienne ignored that. She ran her fingers through his hair and down to the unyielding tendons of his neck and then to the hard lines of his back.

Suddenly, Jaime sighed against her mouth, and Brienne felt the tension go out of him, all at once. He leaned into her as if she were the only thing keeping him upright, his head lowering to rest on her shoulder, his face against her neck. She could feel the gentle scratch of his beard, the soft warmth of his hitching breath, could feel his silent tears. She held him, and whispered nonsense sounds, and stroked his hair, until at last he was still.

“You have more things to be proud of than two, Jaime.” With his head on her shoulder, the only part of him she could reach to kiss was his ear, so she kissed that. “You saved my life. You saved Sansa Stark.”

“ _You_ saved Sansa Stark,” Jaime corrected, his voice so low she could barely hear it.

“With the sword you gave me.”

“Do I have so few virtues you must insist on giving me credit for some of your own?”

“You fought the army of the dead.”

“You said yourself that was about survival.”  

“Stop it,” Brienne said sharply. She knotted her fingers in his hair and tugged his head up so she could look him in the eye. “I love you, but there’s only so much coddling you’ll get from me on one night.”

The words were out before she could stop them, and there was no calling them back. _I love you_. She’d never said it, not once, on all the nights they’d spent together, not even begging him to stay. Wanted to, half-a-hundred times and more, but never said it, because what if he didn’t say it back?

Jaime looked at her, grave, intent, as if her face was a puzzle he was trying to solve, and then, slowly, began to smile. “You love me?”

Brienne took a deep breath. “Yes. I know you – I mean, you don’t have to – ”

“I love you.” His smile was so soft, so gentle, it was impossible to remember a time it had ever been hard and mocking. “You’re right. Three things to be proud of. Loving you has been the best deed of my miserable life.” He turned his head to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Hurting you was the worst.”

“Promise me you’ll never do it again.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I can’t. You know me, Brienne. You know what I’m like.”

“I do. I do know what you’re like. That’s why you have to promise, Jaime, swear to me that you’ll never hurt me like that again, because I know you’ll stand to your word and if you –” She had to pause, blinking hard. “If you hurt me like that again I won’t be able to endure it.”

Jaime leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You gave me armour, you gave me a sword, you made me a knight.” Brienne took his face between her hands again and made him sit up so she could look him in the eye. “I can protect myself. Swear to me. If you need to leave me again, tell me the truth of it – don’t break what we are just because it’s easier for you to leave if you’re not leaving anything behind.”

He flinched at that, a hard tremor running through him. His gaze slid away from her. “That wasn’t –”

“That was exactly what you were doing, don’t lie to me. Swear on your sword that you’ll never do it again.”

“I lost my sword.”

Brienne reached behind her and found Oathkeeper. She drew the scabbarded blade towards her and held it between them. “Swear on mine, then.”

A long moment, when she thought he wouldn’t do it, and then his hand lifted to rest on Oathkeeper’s hilt. He hesitated, and then his stump joined it. “I swear.”

It was only when she heard the words that Brienne realised how tense she’d been, waiting. She let out the breath she’d been holding, head swimming.

“Brienne?” Oathkeeper’s hilt chimed gently on the stone flags and then Jaime’s hand was on her shoulder. “Brienne, you’ve gone pale.”

“I really am tired,” she whispered.

“Come here, then, come here.” Jaime drew her to him, settling her against his shoulder, and she leaned into his warmth.

“We’ll be warmer in bed,” Brienne said.

“I didn’t want to presume my welcome.” He chuckled. “You are rather handy with a sword, after all.”

She was so uncertain of her balance that she crawled to the bed. Jaime helped her heave herself into it and crawled in beside her, both of them still clothed. He gathered her close to him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep,” he said softly, and she did.

 

 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Knights in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

He was still there when she woke, wrapped around her, body slack in slumber.  In the time they’d shared together, she’d rarely seen him sleeping. More often than not, he’d reach for a book when she said goodnight and turned over to sleep, and always he was awake long before she was. _I’m old_ , he would say with a smile. _The old sleep less._

Brienne raised herself on her elbow a little to study the rare sight of Jaime Lannister asleep. He was so deeply under he didn’t stir at her movement, but even so, the lines that anger and irony and grief and laughter had carved on his face were still there. People said that everyone looked like the child they’d once been, sleeping, and Podrick certainly did, but Jaime simply looked like Jaime.

After a few moments, as if he could feel Brienne’s gaze on him, his eyes opened. A lazy smile touched his mouth, and the arms that had been loose around her tightened.  “Come here, knight.”

“Better than wench, I suppose.” Brienne let him draw her in to a kiss, not caring that his mouth and hers were both sour with sleep.

He smiled against her lips. “Come here and kiss me, if you please, Ser Brienne of Tarth.” His tongue asked entrance of her mouth and when she opened to him he tasted the inside of her lips, her tongue, stroked deep into her mouth and laughed a little when she moaned. “Tell me again.”

“Tell you what?” Brienne’s voice had turned husky on her, the way only Jaime could make it.

“I love you. Tell me again that you love me as well.”

“I love you.”

Jaime rolled on top of her and kissed her again, harder, more urgently. Brienne could feel his cock stiff against her. “If I ever offer to leave you again,” he said between hungry kisses, “knock me down. Tie me up. Lock me in a dungeon.” He tugged at the lacing of her shirt with his left hand.

“I’m not your keeper,” Brienne protested, automatically helping him loosen the ties.  

His grin was full of mischief. “You could be. I think I’d like it, chained to a bed waiting for you to come ravish me nightly.” Brienne snorted. “The thing is, Ser Brienne of Tarth –” He parted her shirt and trailed kisses down her neck to her collarbone. “Is that you are a very clever knight indeed, closest advisor of the Lady of Winterfell, and I am rather stupid.” His lips found her breast and suckled until she moaned, arching into his touch. “I need a clever knight to make my decisions for me.”

“Any clever knight?” Brienne gasped.

“I only let knights I’ve slept with make decisions for me.” Jaime turned his attention to her other breast for a moment, and then raised his head to look at her, only a slim rim of green around the black. “I need to be inside you.”

“Yes,” Brienne said. She fumbled with her breeches, pulling them down, and then his. “Yes, please, yes.”

And she had forgotten the feeling of it, forgotten or not dared remember, the way it was not just fullness and friction and heat and pleasure but closeness, togetherness, as Jaime held her gaze and thrust into her, slowly at first and then faster, sweat falling from his face to hers, panting her name, and she was rising and rising into the sun until she reached it and screamed his name, nails digging into his back, and he cried hers and shuddered against her.

Jaime collapsed down on top of her, and then made to roll away. Brienne wrapped her arms around him and held him still. “I’m strong enough. You know I’m strong enough.”

He pressed his lips to her cheek. “Seven Gods and Seven Hells. I’ve changed my mind. If I ever offer to leave you, call the maester, because I will have lost my mind.”

Brienne snorted. “You do talk a lot of nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. It was never like this with –” Jaime stopped. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear.”

Brienne slid her hand under his shirt and ran her hand along his spine. “It’s alright,” she said after a moment. “It happened. We can’t pretend it didn’t. Even if I can’t understand it, I can’t ignore it.”

Jaime was silent a moment, his forehead pressed to her temple. “I don’t want to bring her here. I want this to be – just us.”

“Do you think about her? While we … when we …”

“No,” Jaime said, and she knew him well enough to hear the truth in his voice. “I never think of fucking Cersei while I’m making love to you.” He kissed her cheek and she could feel him smiling. “I have trouble remembering my own name when I’m making love to you, knight.” He shifted a little, settling against her. “Have I told you how I love how strong you are? It makes me feel like a delicate flower, cradled in your arms.”

Brienne laughed, the loud braying laugh that she’d been embarrassed about for years until the night Jaime had spent an hour tickling her, demanding _laugh for me, laugh your wonderful laugh, laugh, Ser Brienne, I insist …_ “You. A delicate flower.”

“Yes, needing to be swept up in your arms and protected from the cruel, cruel world.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if that piece of the Red Keep that hit you in the head did permanent damage.”

Jaime lifted his left hand, took hers, and guided it to the side of his head. “My war wound.”

Brienne could feel the scar beneath her fingers, parted the hair to see the patch cropped shorter. “Gods.” She wrapped her arms around him again, shivering suddenly. “I nearly did lose you.”

“Oh, no, there’s not much up there to be damaged. I told you, I’m rather stupid. I’m the stupidest Lannister.”

She snorted. “That’s like saying Lady Sansa is the eldest Stark. There’s not a lot of competition.” She heard what she’d said, and went still. “I – I’m sorry, I –”

“It’s only truth.” Jaime’s voice was light. “Tyrion has told the Queen that Cersei should be attainted for her crimes. If he persuades her, Tyrion and I will be the last in history to carry the Lannister name.”

“The last Lannisters, and the best Lannisters, all in one,” Brienne said softly. “Do you mind?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“If I can find a knight to cover me with her cloak and give me her name,” Jaime said.

Brienne pulled back, staring at him. “Do you mean –”

There was a knock at the door, and Podrick’s voice called, “Ser Brienne?”

 


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, and conversation

 

Brienne froze, staring at Jaime, whose smile indicated he didn’t take the situation particularly seriously, and then pushed him off her. She cleared her throat, and called, “A moment, Podrick!”

Jaime was chuckling softly.

“Pull your breeches up!” Brienne hissed, dragging at her own.

“Do you think that’s going to make a difference?” Jaime said.

She got her breeches fastened and started on her shirt. “You can’t let Podrick see you like this!”

 The chuckle grew to a guffaw. “Brienne, half the castle must have heard you screaming my name. If you had any hope of keeping your liaison with the Kingslayer secret, it’s well and truly gone, I assure you.”

Brienne glared at him. “It’s not about keeping a secret. It’s about propriety! Get up!”

Still laughing, he rolled out of bed and put his clothes to rights. “Do you think to shock Ser Podrick of the magic cock?”

“Do not talk to me about Podrick’s cock!” she hissed, and Jaime laughed so hard he fell back onto the bed.  “Jaime!”

The knock came again. “Ser Brienne?”

Brienne glared at Jaime, and went to the door. She opened it a crack, doing her best to block any view of the room with her body. “Yes, Podrick?”

He held out a tray. “To break your fast, ser. Lady Sansa suggested you take the day to rest.”

Brienne took the tray. “Thank you, Podrick. You should as well.”

He smiled. “Thank you, ser. But if there’s anything you need …”

“I’ll call you, yes.”

She got the door shut on Podrick and turned to put the tray on the table.   

And realised there were two goblets on it and more food than she could possibly eat.

Jaime sauntered over, and drew a chair out for her with elaborate courtesy. “It seems either Podrick or the kitchen knows.”

Brienne set the tray down with a thump and didn’t take the seat he offered. “It’s not about people knowing. It’s about –”

“People acknowledging,” Jaime said. His face had gone still. “So you’d rather I be an open secret, then? Since I can’t be a secret secret?”

“That’s not –” Brienne took a breath. “That’s not what I mean. I …”

“Would prefer not to acknowledge that the Kingslayer shares your bed?”

“Shut up!” Brienne shouted at him. “Shut up! I’m not ashamed of you. I’m not ashamed of _us_. But do you know what it’s like, to be a woman in a war-camp? To overhear what men say about you? Sometimes when they mean you to, sometimes when they don’t, but you know, Jaime, you know what they say, because you’ve been a _man_ in a war-camp. I don’t care who knows that I love you and I don’t care who knows that you’re in my bed but I can’t stand to think of men speculating about what, and how, and when –”

Jaime was in front of her, his hands on her face, drawing her down to him for a kiss. “Alright,” he said when their lips parted. “I know. It’s alright. Brienne. It’s alright.”

She took a deep breath. “Not that Podrick would ever …”

“No.” Jaime kissed her again, just a light brush of his lips to hers. “But I was foolish, and careless, and stupid. And selfish.”

Brienne rested her forehead against his. “Selfish?”

“I’ve spent my life being kicked out of bed for the sake of secrecy.” Jaime turned his head, slowly, until she leaned against his temple. “I would like to no longer be something to be hidden.” He leaned back, and smiled at her. “Now, come and eat.”

Podrick had brought bread, and cheese, and dried fruit, but before Brienne had eaten more than a few mouthfuls, she realised that the stores had spoiled. “Stop – it’s not –” Her gorge rose and she swallowed hard, swallowed again and realised she wasn’t going to be able to keep the food down. She shot to her feet. The chamber-pot was her best option –

She didn’t reach it, and ended up on her hands and knees coughing bile and breakfast onto the stone floor, Jaime on his knees beside her with his hand bracing her forehead and his stump rubbing her back.

“I’ll send Pod for the maester,” Jaime said, when her stomach was empty and she was able to sit back on her heels and wipe her mouth on her sleeve.

“The stores have spoiled –”

“There’s nothing wrong with the food.”

“I’ve … it’s been a few days.”

Jaime drew her to him with his right arm around her shoulders, his left hand tracing her cheek. “You’ve been sick like this before?”

“I dream,” Brienne admitted. “Of … bad things. And I wake sick from the dreams.”

“Did you dream last night?” Jaime asked.

“No.”

“And you’re still ill. And you swooned last night. Brienne, you must have the maester.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Brienne insisted.

Jaime took two hard breaths, hard enough that as she leaned against him, Brienne could feel herself lifting and falling with them. “And what would you say, to someone serving under you, should they fall fainting to the floor and retch up their food? You are unwell, Brienne. There’s nothing shameful in it. Seven Hells, you cleaned me when I soiled myself and washed vomit from my beard, was I shamed by that?”

“Of course not,” Brienne said. “They’d just cut off your hand!”

“And you have fought against the living dead, and ridden to the edge of the world and back, and you should have the maester, please, Brienne.”

She sighed. “Oh, alright.”


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to update this, I had to process A LOT OF FEELINGS about the ending and it was hard to get back to a happy place.

 

Jaime called for Podrick, and sent him running for Maester Wolkan. Brienne leaned back against Jaime and let herself drift with the tide pulsing in her blood.  He was strong and solid against her and perhaps she dozed a little, because when she opened her eyes again, the maester was there.

He ordered Jaime out of the room, took her pulse, pulled down her eyelids to examine the inside. He  made Brienne bare her teeth so he could study her gums, prodded her chest until she batted his hand away, wincing, and asked impertinent questions about her bowels and her moonblood.

“A few weeks ago. Three, perhaps. Or four.” Some women were lucky enough to be able to predict to the day when they’d need to pad their smallclothes with rags: Brienne had never been one of them. She knew it was no more than four, though, because she’d bled after Jaime had ridden south, and found herself in tears again.  As difficult and shameful as it would have been to raise his bastard child, it would have been _their child_ , something real and true come alive out of the wreckage of what they’d meant to each other.

Maester Wolkan frowned. “So recently?”

Brienne frowned at him. “Why does it matter?”

The maester took her pulse again, and patted her on the hand. “A few weeks will tell the truth of it,” he said. “Or one of the women can brew you moon tea at once.”

It took her a long moment to make sense of his words. “You think I’m …”

“It seems very likely that you are with child,” Maester Wolkan said. “It’s unusual to have such symptoms so early, so perhaps you are mistaken …?”

“So early,” Brienne repeated stupidly. She had started to feel ill on the ride back from the Wall. The Wall, where she had – for reasons she couldn’t fully explain even to herself – lain with Tormund Giantsbane. _Would I ever have told Jaime? Will I tell him now? What will I say? ‘Jaime, while you were dead, an enormous hairy Wildling put a babe in my belly …’_ Her stomach twisted and she retched again, bringing up nothing but a little sour bile.

The maester helped her back into her bed, bade her rest and take light nourishment, but often, and took his leave. Brienne rolled over with her back to the door and curled in a ball. Jaime had given her everything she’d ever longed for, and then he had taken it away. And then, with one letter, Jaime’s brother had given it back to her, with the knowledge that when Jaime had left, he hadn’t been leaving _her_. Now, by the Mother’s grace, he was restored to her – and it was about to be ruined. _And I’m the one who ruined it._

Part of her wanted to have one of the women brew her moon tea, since she certainly wasn’t going to bear Tormund Giantsbane a child, and tell Jaime some lie about a passing illness. _But every bad thing that ever passed between us was because of secrets kept._ Mostly Jaime’s secrets, true, but she wouldn’t start out whatever this new life of theirs was going to look like with one of her own.

The door opened, closed again, and a moment later the bed shifted and settled. “Brienne?” Jaime said softly. He touched her shoulder. “What did the maester say?”

Like pouring boiling wine on a wound to clean it, it was better to get it over with than endure slow drop after drop. “He thinks I’m with child.”

“Really?” The joy and wonder in Jaime’s voice only made it worse. He lay down beside her, curling around her, and kissed the back of her neck. “I’ll give it my name, of course, if you want, but I think given everything it would be better for me to take yours –”

“Not your child,” Brienne ground out, and felt him go suddenly very still.

“Whose?” he asked softly.

“Tormund.”

“You lay with that huge hairy ginger fucker while I was in your bed?” Jaime snarled, suddenly very much the lion of old.

“No!” Brienne uncurled and flung herself over to glare at him. “Of course not! You were _dead_ , Jaime, you left me begging you to stay and then they told me you were dead and I just wanted – _something_. Life. Feeling. Something, I don’t know!”

The hard line of his mouth eased a bit. “And did you like it?”

“A lot less than you liked fucking Cersei, on all evidence,” Brienne shot back.

Jaime winced. He nodded slightly. “That’s fair.”

Brienne sighed. She cupped his cheek, and then slid her fingers through his hair. “But unkind. I don’t want to be unkind to you. It was … alright, I suppose. I could probably learn to put up with it.”

He managed a flicker of a smile.  “At least my vanity is untarnished.”

She snorted. “I think your vanity is impervious to tarnishing.”

“And when was this?”

“A few weeks ago. I was at the Wall, Lady Sansa probably told you. And it was right after that I started having trouble keeping my food down.”

Slowly, Jaime began to smile, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers, the merest feather of a kiss. “Then I think I have some prospects of fatherhood, after all.”

Brienne shook her head. “No, Jaime, I’ve had my moonblood since then. I remember because … part of me was hoping that I wouldn’t.”

His smile didn’t dim. “A little blood, am I right?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. I’m never all that, you know …” She could feel herself blushing. _Bad enough to talk to the maester about my moon cycle._ And how was it easier to talk to Maester Wolkan about womanly matters than to the man who’d actually been inside her?

“I think you should talk to one of the midwives before you make up your mind that you’re doomed to a huge red-headed child,” Jaime said. “I never knew Cersei to get sick before the second month, and once, with Joffrey, she bled a little, several times, early on. Don’t freeze on me, Brienne.”

Brienne realised she had frozen, not just still but rigid, turned to stone or ice. She took a deep breath, and then another, and forced her muscles to release their lock. “I’m sorry. I hate her, I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“Many people hated my sister, usually because she gave them good reason to.”

“I hate her for what she did to you.” The words burst out of her. “How she hurt you.”

“That wasn’t her fault, or at least, it was as much mine. We were a match, a pair, twins.”

Brienne shook her head. “No. Perhaps at first. But, no.”

“I was not some green child taken against –”

“Jaime.” She put her hand against his cheek and he fell silent, and she was astonished all over again that she had such power over him. “As children, you were children. But it has been a long time since you were a child, and if you think I couldn’t see how she hurt you …”

“ _She_ was hurt.” Jaime’s voice was no more than a whisper. “All her life, from when they began to treat her as peace-cow and me as the heir. Father, Robert … her own sons. A woman should be able to expect her menfolk to protect her.”

“She could have –”

“She did.” Jaime’s eyes blazed green, and his voice was hard. “She wasn’t you, Brienne. She didn’t have a father who let her learn to fight, who sent her to tourneys with his blessing. She was hurt, and hurt again, and she fought with the weapons she had. As I would have, in her place. As you would have.”

“No,” Brienne said, bone-deep certainty. “I would have made them kill me. And so would you.”

“But you’re not Cersei –"

“And neither are you.” She dug her fingers into his hair and gripped, forcing him to look at her. “Jaime. You told me that yourself, when we were captive.”

Jaime closed his eyes. “It’s different. Robert was her husband, the King. The marriage held the seven kingdoms together. Her duty to our family, to the realm …”

“Perhaps it _was_ different,” Brienne said. “And perhaps you’re right, she was only fighting with the weapons she had. But the hurts done to her don’t excuse the ones she did to you. The way you looked, that day in the dragon pit … you were more alive on the way to Harrenhal, with your wound festering and you doing your utmost to die, than you were that day.”

He opened his eyes again, and traced her features with his fingers. “I hardly dared look at you.”

“I noticed.”

Jaime smiled a little.  “It was so much easier to just … be. To not care. To be what Cersei needed me to be, when you were far away. When I served King Aerys, I would go away in my mind, go home to Casterly Rock, ride through the meadows, while men burned, while the Queen screamed. That last year, I spent so much time in my tent at Riverrun, in my thoughts, I could have described it to you better than my own quarters at the Red Keep.” His fingers ran through her hair. “That tent was home, because you had been in it.”

Brienne put her arms around him and drew him to her, holding him with all her strength, heart aching with the need to erase every cruelty he’d experienced.  “You have a home with me as long as you want it.”

“I want it from this day until my last day,” Jaime whispered against her neck, and Brienne felt her eyes fill with tears.

“And if you’re wrong, and I’m carry a child that isn’t yours?”

He was silent a moment. “Cersei never let me love the children I fathered. There’s a certain sense to it, isn’t there? That I love and cherish another man’s son or daughter as my own?”


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne seeks other advice.

Brienne cleared her throat, and looked away. “Podrick, umm. Do you know a woman?”

There was a small pause, and then Podrick resumed clearing the table. “One or two, ser.”

“One who knows about, ah. Children?”

Plates clattered. “Ah. Ser. Maester Tarly’s woman, Gilly?”

Brienne’s face burned. “Could you, um. Find her? And ask her if she’d be so kind as to … visit.”

“Ser.” Podrick’s voice was strangled. “I, ah. Only ask because …”

“You do not need to keep it secret from Ser Jaime,” Brienne assured him.

Podrick’s sigh of relief was so loud Brienne was surprised it didn’t ruffle her hair. “I’ll talk to her as soon as I can find her, ser,” he said.

“Just, ah, Podrick, don’t, um …”

“I won’t, ser. Gilly’s a good person,” he said earnestly. “She’s not a gossip, or anything. She likes people.”

_Likes people_. Well, that was a strong recommendation in the North, where nine-tenths of manners were the sheer practicality of knowing that the person you were talking to might be the one deciding whether you sheltered by their fire or froze in the snow when the next winter came.

Brienne waited for Podrick to leave, and lay back down on the bed. Maester Wolkan had advised her to rest, when she was tired, and she was very tired just then. She dozed, until a tap at the door.

Once she saw Gilly, Brienne immediately recognised her: the Wildling woman who taught the children of Winterfell the beginnings of how to read and write. Gilly hesitated at the door, ducking a clumsy curtsey.  “Ser Brienne.”

Brienne heaved herself up from the bed and put her feet on the floor. “Lady Gilly.”

Gilly’s face flushed red. “I’m no lady, m’lady.”

“Samwell Tarly is the heir to Horn Hill, isn’t he?” Brienne asked.

“Yes, but –”

“Just go on and be the person you are, that’s my advice.” Brienne shifted her weight, trying to judge whether standing would make her lightheaded. “People will try to tell you that you’re wrong, or that you’re doing it the wrong way.  But you’re the Lady of Horn Hill, and however you be the lady of Horn Hill is the right way.” She paused. “It’s taken me a long time to realise that, but it’s true.”

“I’ll try,” Gilly said. “Podrick said you asked after me?”

Brienne nodded. “I … I’d prefer this not talked of.”

“I can keep a confidence,” Gilly said. “I’ll tell no-one, unless you ask me to, I swear it by the Old Gods, and the New.”

It took Brienne a moment, still, to ease the tension in her chest and her gut, until she could say, “I’m maybe with child.”

Gilly went very still. “And are you glad of it?”

“I – I want a child.” Words she had not said aloud to anyone, not even silently to herself in the years since she’d given up on any chance of love and marriage. Brienne felt tears starting to her eyes. “But I … I don’t know whose child.”

Gilly came to sit on the bed, and put her hand over Brienne’s. “Did you lie with two men at the same time?”

Brienne shook her head. “One, and then later, another.”

“How far apart?”

“A month. More, a little more, I think.”

“And how long ago, the last man?”

“Two weeks. But … I began to feel uneasy in my stomach right after that, and I’d had my moonblood since … since I was with …”

“Then it’s not his child,” Gilly said with absolute assurance. “It takes more than a few days for the sickness to start.”

Hope fluttered up in Brienne. _That’s what Jaime said._ She put her hand to her stomach. “Are you sure?”

“I had nineteen sisters, ser. Between them they bore many, many children. I’m quite sure. Either you have a sickness of some kind, from dirty water or something like it, and there’s no child at all, or the first man you had gave you a babe.”

Brienne’s vision blurred with tears of relief, and she had to blink hard to clear it. “Nineteen sisters? Your mother –”

Gilly turned away, looking at the floor. “It’s a long story, ser.”

Having spent so long raising walls herself, Brienne could recognise them in others. “Perhaps one day you’ll wish to tell me. Or perhaps not. How soon – how soon can I be sure?”

Gilly looked back at Brienne, chewing her lip. “Well, you’re not a small woman, ser, but not a fat one neither. It’s hard to know when you might start to show. Are you – I’m sorry to be indelicate, ser.”

“I’d rather you be indelicate than unsure,” Brienne said.  

“Are your teats sore?” Gilly asked. “Tender?” Brienne nodded. “And have you been tired?”

“Yes, but I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“If you miss your next moonblood, you’ll be sure,” Gilly said. “But I’d say, you have a babe on the way, and it’s been there for more than two weeks.” She paused. “But if you’d be rid of it if you can’t be sure, it’s best done now. The longer you wait, the more risk to you.”

Brienne found her hands folded protectively over her stomach. “I …”

Gilly laid her hand over Brienne’s. “You love it already, don’t you? No matter who fathered it.”

Brienne nodded, her eyes overflowing again.

“And your man will love it too, never fear.” Gilly patted Brienne’s hands. “Sam didn’t put little Sam in my belly, but he’s his father, for all that, and he loves him like a father. Once a child is in your arms, once you’ve fed it and changed it and rocked it to sleep, you love it, I don’t care if you’re man or woman.” She smiled at Brienne. “Besides, from the way he looks at you, he’d love your child with all his heart for your sake.”

“The way he –” Brienne felt her face blazing with a fiery blush.

“Ser Jaime,” Gilly said. “He’s your man, isn’t he? I know no-one talks about it, because it’s different here in the south, but I’ve seen you look at him, and him at you. You’re lucky, the way I’m lucky. Many women settle for company, and warmth, and a roof. Many men, too.”

“He’s my man,” Brienne admitted in a small squeak of a voice.

“Will you take my advice, ser?” Gill asked.

“Yes, of course,” Brienne said. “That’s why I asked Podrick to bring you here.”

“If you come through child-bearing safely, and your babe is born hale, place him in Ser Jaime’s arms as soon as you may can. That’s what makes a father, ser. Holding and protecting a child. This child –” Her hand pressed against Brienne’s stomach. “Could be Ser Jaime’s babe without doubt and if you keep him from it, he will never be its father. If you give it to him to love, it will be his son or daughter whoever put it in your belly.” She smiled, and rubbed Brienne’s stomach gently. “But I think it was him, all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wrapping up with a little bit of wish-fulfilment fluff!


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some months later ...

 

Brienne screamed.

“If you bar me one moment longer –” Jaime’s sword was half from its scabbard. He glared down at the wizened woman standing outside the bedroom door.

“Jaime!” Brienne hollered, and Jaime sheathed his sword and shoved past the old woman by main force.

He flung open the door of their chambers to see Brienne on hands and knees on the bed, surrounded by three of Winterfell’s midwives, and Maester Wolkan.  Her face was bright red, as if she’d been sparring to exhaustion, her jaw set hard. Jaime crossed to her in two long strides and sank down beside her, his arms around her shoulders. “I’m here, I’m here, it’s alright.”

She groaned wordlessly, her whole body rigid, and then eased, and pressed her face against his shoulder. “Jaime.”

“It’s alright,” Jaime said. “It won’t hurt much longer.”

“It’s just hard,” Brienne panted. “I don’t know – I don’t think I can – ”

“There you go, girl,” one of the midwives said. “This is where it really starts.”

“Gods,” Brienne said, and then panted and strained and sobbed for breath again.

“It will be alright,” Jaime assured her. “It will be alright.”

Brienne raised her head and stared at him. Her brilliant blue eyes were glazed with pain and strain. “Jaime. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can – I can’t –”

He left his right arm around her shoulders and cupped her cheek with his one good hand. “Ser Brienne of Tarth.  You are the strongest person, man or woman, that I have ever known. You can. You _can_.”

Brienne stared at him, and he held her gaze and tightened his fingers on her cheek when she groaned again and pressed his forehead to hers.

“Close, now,” Maester Wolkan said. “You’re close, ser.”

“Brienne,” Jaime whispered to her. “A little longer. I know I can’t know how it hurts. A little longer.”

She nodded against his face and then went rigid again, her whole body bent to an effort Jaime couldn’t even begin to imagine, and strained, and panted, and raised one hand from the bed to clutch at his arm with a strength that would leave bruises for weeks.

“One more time,” Wolkan said. “Ser Brienne? One more time.”

“Once more,” Jaime murmured. “Once more, Brienne. All your strength. Once more.”

“Stay with me,” Brienne gasped. “Stay.”

“Always and forever,” Jaime assured her. “Always and forever. All your strength, now, Brienne. Gather yourself.”

Brienne nodded, and Jaime could feel her do just that, as she did before a sharp attack when they were sparring, summoning up all her resources.

“I love you,” he said, and then Brienne was hollering wordlessly against his shoulder and straining in his grasp and then suddenly there was a new sound, a thin wail that quickly picked up strength to become a lusty cry. Brienne collapsed forward against him, sobbing with exhaustion, and it was all Jaime could do to hold her up. The midwives helped him, turning and lowering her, a confusion and tangle of limbs until Jaime was sitting on the bed with Brienne leaning back against him between his spread legs.

“You have a daughter,” Wolkan said, and laid the wrapped and squalling babe in Brienne’s arms.

“Is she well?” Jaime asked.

Brienne snorted. “I’ll geld you, if you’re asking if she’s like your brother –”

“I’m not,” Jaime said quickly. The babe’s face was bright red and she was screaming with indignation. He reached over Brienne’s shoulder and traced her tiny, scarlet cheek. “I mean, is she well.”

“She is,” Wolkan said. “The lungs on her tell me that.” He smiled at Brienne. “Give her the breast, ser. That will soothe her.”

“I –” Brienne stiffened suddenly. “Jaime, take her, take her –”

He reached around her shoulders and supported the child as Brienne strained briefly and then relaxed. “It’s only the afterbirth,” he said. “It’s alright. Are you alright?”

Brienne nodded. She looked down at the child cradled in her arms, framed by Jaime’s arms. “How do I …?”

The midwives helped her, guided her daughter’s mouth to her nipple. It took a moment, and then both Brienne and the babe got the knack of it and the infant’s squalls were replaced by contented suckling.  By then the midwives had cut the cord and disposed of the afterbirth, and tended Brienne’s poor tender flesh, and Jaime finally had a moment to be alone with his wife and child.

He could only see part of Brienne’s face as she looked down at their daughter, but it was lit with the luminous tenderness she usually reserved for him. But that was alright: Jaime had only to look at the babe’s downy head to know he’d die to keep her safe. “What shall you name her?” he whispered.

“If it’s alright with you … Joanna,” Brienne said.

Jaime reached down to touch the plump little cheek again. _She’s mine_. She was far too large to be a seven-month child. _Not that I truly care._ “Hello, Joanna Catelyn of Tarth,” he said. “When you get bigger, your mother is going to teach you to be the bravest knight in the realm.”

Brienne gave a huff of laughter. “Oh, it’s all on me, is it? What are you going to teach her?”

“I’ll teach her to ride. That’s one thing I still do better than you. Her Uncle Tyrion will teach her to be clever. Aunt Sansa will teach her – ”

Brienne frowned. “ _Aunt_ Sansa? Do you know something I don’t?”

“Littlefinger botched the annulment, on purpose Tyrion suspects, so he could pull out of the alliance with the Boltons if need be, so technically, at the moment, she is Aunt Sansa. Aunt Arya will teach her to be light on her feet and as fast as the wind. Her Uncle Jon will teach her how to love the North and her grandfather will teach her to love the south.”

“You have very great plans for a very small child,” Brienne said dryly.

Jaime chuckled. “She’s _your_ daughter. She’ll have very great plans for herself. I’m only planning how best to equip her for them.”

Brienne settled herself more comfortably against him. “Who do you think she’ll turn out to be?”

Jaime kissed her hair. “Whoever she wants,” he said. “And I, for one, can’t wait to find out who that is.”


End file.
